Welcome to the Workbench!

Weekend at the Workbench was born from a personal shift—one Friday at a time.

Several years ago, my Fridays ended at a bar with colleagues, blowing off steam from another brutal week. Now, they end on a porch with my wife, or in a trailer with a few volunteers, delivering beds to kids sleeping on the floor. That shift—from escape to presence, from numbing to gratitude—changed everything. This weekly blog exists to mark that same shift for other men. It’s a rhythm, a reset, and a reminder that how we end our week matters. The weekend isn’t time off from formation—it’s where the real test begins. This space will help us stay grounded in what matters most: faith, service, discipline, and gratitude. Before you drift, scroll, or slide into old habits—hit the workbench. Let’s finish strong.

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Why it Took What it Took

This week, I found myself back in that quiet, sacred space where struggle meets surrender. It started with a call from my dad—he’s been fighting pancreatic cancer—and a plea from my mom, a call of urgency not just for physical support but for spiritual presence. “Can you come do a rosary with your dad today?” she asked, her voice thin but edged with something unmistakable: quiet desperation.

And so I went.

For years now—fifteen, if I’m counting—we’ve prayed the rosary together on Wednesday at lunchtime,, my dad and I. But this time, it was different. My dad was grappling with thoughts no one should have to face alone: the weight of mortality, the fear of being a burden, the sheer exhaustion of fighting a disease that seems to rob dignity one memory, one muscle, one moment at a time.

In that moment, all I could offer was myself—my broken, imperfect, but present self—and the prayers that have carried us this far. I shared with them a story from my own dark season: watching my son, Logan, teeter between life and death, powerless to stop it, and learning to let go and trust God’s plan. I told them how surrendering my son—our dreams, our control, our timeline—into God’s hands was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. But it was also the doorway to unexpected grace.

We prayed. We sat in the silence. We let the weight lift, if only for a little while. Later, my mom texted me to say that it was a “Godsend”—not just a gesture, but a lifeline. It got my dad out of his funk. It was enough light to get them back on their feet, enough hope for them to take a trip the next day to Santa Barbara. Enough to remind them, and me, that we’re not alone.

And here’s the truth that landed on me:

Sometimes the suffering we endure isn’t just for us.

It’s so we can walk alongside others when they’re stumbling. It’s so we can be credible witnesses—not because we’re perfect or wise, but because we’ve been there. We’ve sat in the hospital rooms, felt the suffocating weight of powerlessness, and wrestled with our own dark thoughts. And somehow, by grace, we’re still standing. Still praying. Still present.

That’s what Weekend at the Workbench is for.

It’s a space to remember that as men, we don’t get to check out when the weekend comes. We don’t get to silence the call of those who need us—our wives, kids, aging parents, brothers, neighbors, or even strangers. And maybe—just maybe—the reason we’ve been through what we’ve been through is so we can show up differently for them. So we can say, “I’ve been there. I know it’s hard. Let’s pray. Let’s sit in the silence. Let’s not give up.”

This weekend, I invite you—no, I challenge you—to lean into the moments that feel inconvenient, painful, or overwhelming.

• When your kid asks for your attention.

• When your wife needs you to listen instead of fixing.

• When your dad or mom is afraid and needs your quiet presence.

• When you’re tempted to self-medicate or check out.

Ask yourself:

What if this is why you went through what you did?

What if God is inviting you to stand in the gap for someone else—right now?

Let’s not waste our scars. Let’s let them speak into someone else’s dark hour. Let’s remember that what we’ve endured wasn’t meaningless. It was preparation.

If you’ve had a time you could tell that something really tough you went through was a benefit to one of your loved ones or even to a stranger, drop it in the comments below

This is your Weekend at the Workbench reminder:

Your life is not about you. It’s about how you show up—especially when it’s hard.

Stay strong, brothers. Stay rooted. And don’t forget—you’re not alone.

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The Sacrifice That Prepares Us

There’s a way men end their weeks that says more about who they are than how they began it.

The world says, “Thank God it’s over. Let loose. Blow off steam.” But we’ve been learning a different rhythm. One that’s not about escape—but about offering. Not collapse—but completion. Not reward—but remembrance.

This is a place where we remind each other that Fridays aren’t the finish line. They’re the threshold. A chance to temper ourselves in the forge of daily sacrifice—so we’re ready to step into the sacred rest and joy of the Lord’s Day.

Story from the Workbench: On the Road, Tempered

This week, I found myself hauling a horse trailer cross-country with my daughter—her whole life packed into a truck and two horses she’s raised herself. She didn’t ask for help. I had to offer. And she didn’t need someone to take control—she needed someone to accompany her.

That shift—from controlling to accompanying—was hard. I’ve hauled trailers my whole life. But not like this. These weren’t boards or dumpsters. These were breathing, beloved parts of her story. She had every right to guide me, and I had every reason to listen. But I lost my temper. Not in some blow-up way—more like a slow boil. The sighs, the short tone, the subtle “I know what I’m doing….can you please stop telling me how to drive” vibe.

But somewhere in Illinois or maybe Indiana, it hit me: This wasn’t about horsepower. It was about humility. Another inspection point in the rebuild.

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My tantrums now are more like ticks—less frequent, less damaging—but they’re still there. This moment was a test: could I stay present, humble, gentle? Could I sacrifice my pride to offer her peace?

We’re almost in Kentucky now, about to drop her off for her first real job—running a barn of 55 thoroughbreds. She’s stepping into something big, and I want her memory of this trip to be not just about a truck and a trailer, but about the way her dad showed up: present, patient, and formed.

This is what we mean by tempered: not weak, not passive—but heat-treated. Controlled. Sharpened. Made useful.

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Weekend Rhythm: Look Back + Step Forward

As you head into the weekend, take 10-15 minutes at the workbench—or on a run, or in your truck—and walk through these:

1. What needed tempering this week?

• Was there a moment when your emotions outpaced your wisdom?

• What triggered that, and what did it reveal?

2. Where did you accompany instead of control?

• Did you allow someone else to lead?

• What did you resist—and why?

3. What did you offer this week?

• In work, at home, in prayer—what sacrifices did you make without reward?

• Can you connect those small moments to something greater?

4. What still needs to be laid down?

• Is there lingering pride, resentment, exhaustion, or ego?

• What would it look like to give that to God tonight?

5. How will you enter the weekend?

• Not to escape, but to engage.

• Not for yourself, but for the people you’ve been given to serve.

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Closing Charge:

Let this Friday be your offering. Let the strain of your week—not your leisure—be the thing that prepares you to enter into the joy of the weekend with dignity, sobriety, and strength.

And when the Lord’s Day comes, may you rise—not just from sleep, but into new life.

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“An Offering Acceptable”

It’s Friday again. The work is still unfinished. And the weight is real.

This week, I came home from Montana to a hard reality—one that I helped create. We’d made commitments to vendors and subs that we couldn’t keep, based on receivables we expected but never received. A few of those guys are my friends, which made the news harder to deliver and even harder to carry.

Some of those conversations got tense. Threats were made. And I had to sit in the tension—fully aware that I wasn’t in control of the outcome, but still responsible for the way I handled it.

By 4:30 Friday, the building was empty. I was still at my desk - stayed there for an hour wrapping up the final loose ends that had to be done before I called it a week. 5 years ago, I’d have disappeared by 2pm to go blow off steam. I didn’t hit the bar or hide behind a late meeting, or some lame excuse as to why I missed dinner…again.

I came home.

My wife was in the driveway with my sister, talking after a walk. I took off my boots, sat down, and tried to zone out. That’s when she walked in and said:

“Aren’t you going to that new meeting?”

It was a Grapevine-based AA group I had heard about last week. I told her it might be too late. She said gently, “It seems like you could use one.”

She wasn’t accusing me. She was inviting me. To take care of myself. To walk it out differently. To be formed—not just bruised.

So I went. Showed up late. Sat in the circle. Listened to men and women share about things that made my week look small. And I was reminded: this isn’t about escape. It’s about offering.

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“Make my whole self into an offering of praise…”

The Exodus 90 reflection this week struck like a hammer:

“Make my whole self into an offering of praise… united to the sacrifice of Christ. Strengthen me so I may never shrink back by preferring my ideas and passions.”

The old version of me would’ve chosen shame, silence, or sedation.
This week, I chose to show up.
To stay in the fight.
To let the process of formation go one step deeper.

Weekend at the Workbench

The workbench isn’t a stage.
It’s not a confessional booth.
It’s the place where men get formed by the fight they didn’t ask for.

So here’s the question for all of us as we step into this weekend:
• Where do I usually escape instead of offer?
• What would it look like to stay a little longer at the bench?
• Who’s inviting me into something better—and am I listening?

See you next Friday.
Keep your boots on.

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The Week in Review: Deuteronomy 8 and a Montana Road Trip

This week, I left the jobsite behind at 4 a.m. Wednesday and pointed the truck toward Montana. My daughter is graduating—a full year early—from a college so remote her Mom hadn’t been back since senior year tours. And let me tell you, this drive feels less like a getaway and more like a pilgrimage.

She’s built something powerful up here. Quietly. Independently. Working through bitter winters and long nights to earn a shot at a top-tier racetrack job in Kentucky - she’s got a job as a barn manager at Turfway Park, in charge of 55 thoroughbreds. She’s already planning how to pull her horses across the country. No drama. No excuses. Just get-it-done.

And as I sit here—soaked in gratitude, watching her move into the next chapter of her life—I can see exactly where the blueprint came from. Some of it’s me. Some of it’s her mom. Some of it’s her own fire. And I’d be lying if I said I didn’t see the performance drive too.

She’s running hot. Just like I used to.

I don’t want to cool that fire. But I do hope this:
That she doesn’t have to burn out before she learns how to be still.
That service comes sooner.
That surrender doesn’t have to cost her everything first.

I see the difference in my own life now—not because I’ve figured it all out—but because I’m clear-headed enough to notice. I’m not waking up hungover. I’m not checking out in the most important moments. I’m here. Present. Grateful.

And Deuteronomy 8 keeps ringing in my ears:

“Take care lest you forget the Lord… lest you say in your heart, ‘My power and the might of my hand have gotten me this wealth.’”

That’s the success test.

It’s not just about what we’ve built. It’s about how we carry it. Whether we see God’s fingerprints all over it—or think we did it all ourselves.

This weekend, I’m passing the test.
Not because I nailed the week.
But because I’m still at the bench. Heart open. Spirit checked.

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One Question:

Where are you tempted to take the credit this week?

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One Practice:

Before Sunday morning hits, take 5 minutes. Write a thank-you note. Not to a client. Not to a vendor.
To someone who helped form you—even if it was through pain.
Put gratitude in motion.

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Sabbath Reminder:

Rest isn’t a break from performance.
It’s a return to perspective